


Nights With You

by anotherwinchesterfangirl



Series: Song Prompt Fics [12]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Masturbation, Mention of smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-10
Updated: 2016-12-10
Packaged: 2018-09-07 13:31:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8802781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anotherwinchesterfangirl/pseuds/anotherwinchesterfangirl
Summary: Dean's feeling lonely.For the song prompt "No One Like You" by Scorpions.





	

Dean’s is the only lit window in the Star Lite Motel at 3:00am on Thursday—or is it Friday? Washed-out yellow and flickering blue spills through the curtains into the dark parking lot, reflecting off the shiny black of the Impala parked outside his door. The ancient air conditioning unit wheezes over the low sounds of gunshots and clomping hooves—Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid is playing on the fuzzy tube TV. It was the best he could find in the middle of the night, and he just needed something in the background while he worked on hacking into the case files of the local police department.

He’s down to a white t-shirt, suit pants, and socked feet, his long legs stretched down the bed and crossed at the ankle. He’s still recovering from a nasty encounter with a werewolf—a couple of cracked ribs, a few stitches on one side, but nothing that’s going to stop him from working. Sam wanted him to take a week to recover, as though monsters were going to stop killing people for a week just because the hunters needed a break. But Dean could be just as stubborn as Sam sometimes, and so the other bed in the room sits undisturbed. He’d booked a room with two out of habit before he’d remembered.

He’d forgotten how much he hated working cases alone. Not that he can’t get it done, but he’d rather have Sammy with him. That hadn’t seemed to matter much at the time, when they were arguing and he was pissed off. That fight was so stupid—he feels shitty about it now, but he’s not going back to the bunker until he’s finished this. They’ve been separated for longer over less, and he’s determined to see this through, even if he’s stuck in this crummy motel room in this stupid town that doesn’t even have a decent bar.

Dean drains the remainder of his fourth beer and plunks the bottle down on the cheap plywood nightstand littered with empties and grease-smeared burger wrappers—the only leftovers from his gas station dinner. He yawns and stretches, scrubs a hand over the two days worth of stubble on his face, figures he should probably try to get at least a couple hours of sleep. He’s not getting anywhere on this case anyway—he keeps hitting dead ends and it’s frustrating as hell. He snaps his laptop shut and shucks his pants, switches off the TV and crawls under the sheet.

His mind swims in the dark, a little fuzzy from booze and lack of sleep—he’s been running on about four hours in the past two days trying to solve this case—but he’s too wired to sleep. He keeps running over the details. Why doesn’t it make any sense? People are dying, and he can’t figure out why. No one will work with him, no one will tell him what’s really going on, and he doesn’t have any backup to trade ideas with or help with the lore.

The air is sticky and humid—the air conditioning in here is totally worthless—and he rolls over restlessly, pushing one leg out from under the sheet. He tries hard to empty his brain, to relax, but then she floats into his head and she’s all he can see behind his closed eyes—the swell of her breasts, the dip at the small of her back, the swing of her hips when she walks. The way she fits into the palms of his hands, the way he fits between her thighs. The way she looks at him, hungry, through her eyelashes as she runs her tongue up his shaft.

He groans a little into the dark, feeling his cock twitch to life inside his boxer briefs. It’s been a while since he’s been with anybody, since he’s had a hand around his dick that wasn’t his own. And it’s been even longer since he’s seen her—he only gets to swing by her place when he’s in the area and he has time, which is hardly ever—and he aches for her. He wishes she were here, that she could somehow know where he was and show up at his door. Surprise! she’d say, smiling, and under her clothes he’d find black leather and lace, and he’d explore her skin with his tongue, wrap his hands in her hair, pull sounds out of her that she didn’t even know she could make. And she’d make him forget everything frustrating about this case, about his fight with Sam. At least for an hour or two.

He rolls over onto his back, the sheet completely pushed away now. His balls are heavy and his cock is tenting his boxer briefs, straining against the worn fabric, and he hooks his thumbs under the elastic and pushes down the waistband with a sigh. He’s already leaking from the tip as he grips the root, drags his hand upward. He opens his fist at the top, pulls his hand across the head, and then goes back to stripping himself, sliding easy with the slick streak of precome across his palm. The sound of it, quick and wet, mingles with his labored breaths, a grunt, a sigh.

God if she were here, he would make her scream his name as she shook like a leaf under him, eyes rolling back in her head in pleasure, hands gripping the sheet so hard it’d pull up off the corner of the mattress. He imagines eating her out, the soft give of her under his tongue, the bittersweet taste, the heat, and he licks his lips, greedy. He squeezes his eyes shut and imagines her underneath him, one calf up over his shoulder, spread wide under him, the wet slide of his cock in and out of her soaked pussy.

He bites the knuckles of his other hand to muffle his shout as he comes, shooting sloppy over his fist and onto his belly. He groans and drops his hand to the bed. His balls emptied so fast it’s almost painful, but instantly he’s ready for sleep. He rolls out of bed, eyes open just a slit, and stumbles into the bathroom for a towel, takes a piss, washes his hands. Then he goes back and falls onto the other bed, lays on top of the comforter. The coolness of the pillow pressed against his cheek makes him sigh. Just before he falls asleep, he decides to make a pitstop on his way home.

***  
You’re doing your dishes when the doorbell rings, and you look over your shoulder at the clock on the stove. It’s 9:30pm on a Friday—who would be ringing your doorbell right now? You sigh, rinse the suds off your hands, and carry the dishtowel with you to the front door. You tiptoe to the peephole—if it’s not someone you like, you’re not answering. But when you see the flash of plaid, the leather jacket, the stubbled jawline, you have to stifle your squeal as you throw the door open. He’s leaning on the doorframe, one arm raised, his eyes dark and smoldering.

“Hey, babe.”


End file.
